Sher-de-lolly
by Morgause Dresden
Summary: It's been three years since Sherlock Holmes left Nottingham to fight in the crusades. He returns to find that England is in disarray and Molly Hooper has been imprisoned by the usurping Prince Jim Moriarty. Even with the help of Little John, Friar Lestrade, and merry men Donovan and Anderson, things look bleak. Sherlolly Robin Hood AU
1. Sherlock Returns

Sherwood Forest had been too quiet for too long—at least, it seemed so to Molly Hooper as she walked along the path that led to Nottingham. It was autumn; the leaves had long since turned to reds and oranges and golds. Many had already fallen from their branches and crunched beneath her feet. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of branches that hung above Molly's head and dappled the path before her. It was a beautiful day.

But Sherwood Forest had been too quiet for too long.

It seemed a long time ago that Molly had walked this same path with a man, tall, dark haired and pale with blue eyes that seemed to look right through her to the center of her soul. He couldn't, of course—she knew that for a fact. He had always said exactly the wrong things, and she doubted that he had ever really looked at her unless she was helping him research, and even then not for long.

The last time that Molly had lain eyes on him, the trees had been green. He had been as cold as winter—that was usual, though the kiss he had planted on her cheek was not. He had said goodbye and she had not said anything for fear that she would cry. Then, he had mounted his horse and she'd watched him ride into the distance until he disappeared around the bend in the road. Three years had passed since then—three long years since Sherlock Holmes had gone to fight in the crusades alongside his king.

Tears pricked Molly's eyes and she shook her head. "Silly girl," she muttered. A breeze swirled around her, causing her long skirt to tangle around her ankles. She cleared her throat and adjusted the strap of her satchel so that it sat more comfortably on her shoulders. The trees were beginning to thin, and in the distance she could hear children's laughter and see smoke rising from a cluster of thatched huts. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she began to walk a bit faster.

* * *

She hadn't changed at all. The same dull yellow cloak was clasped at her throat, the same worn leather bag hung at her side. She still wore her hair tied back with a leather thong, and she still took the "scenic route" through the woods on her trips to the village.

"You missed her?" John Watson pulled his horse—a dappled mare—to a halt so that he sat just beside Sherlock.

"You know that I don't believe in such sentiment, John." Sherlock grimaced and looked away from Molly. His own horse, a black beast with a cropped mane and shining dark eyes, nickered and chomped at the bit, eager to get moving again. "I am merely amazed at the human affinity for tradition. Molly Hooper is a shining example of—"

John rolled his eyes. "Don't you start."

Sherlock contrived to look innocent. "What? I was only explaining—"

"You've already 'explained' enough for one day, Sherlock. What say we make the rest of the ride in…what do you call it? Er…contemplative silence?" John shook his head. "And please, keep your hood up. Remember—things are different now."

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. He did so with a groan. "So you've told me, John."

"I'm glad you were listening. Hood up. We don't want Prince Jim's men seeing your face."

Sherlock growled under his breath, but pulled the hood of his cloak on. With a flick of reigns and a touch of their heels, the pair set off down the hillside.


	2. Chapter 1

Molly was met on the edge of Nottingham by the local monk, a friar who went by the name of Lestrade. He was not old or fat, like so many of the religious figures that Molly had known as a child. Instead, he was of average height, and muscular. His hair, a full head of it, was graying, yes, but his eyes were sharp and he had all his teeth in his head. His brown robes—typical garb for a man of the cloth—were cinched tightly around his waist with a piece or rope. When Molly approached him, he did not cross himself or mutter a prayer like so many had before him. Instead, he nodded and gestured for her to follow him up a sloping hill to the church.

It was a huge stone building that, to Molly, seemed to have been constructed almost completely of arches, parapets and unhappy gargoyles. The door, a simple but heavy slab of oak, swung open without a sound. Molly and Friar Lestrade entered the chapel together.

"This way, Maid Molly," he muttered, and pulled her to the side, down a short hallway to the entrance of an alcove that Molly had seen many times than she cared to count. She knew the way, but thought that it gave the Friar something else to do besides pray and lecture sinners on their wrongdoing. So she allowed him to linger as she stepped into the cool, dark room where the body waited for her.

It was lying on a stone table that had been positioned on the other end of the rectangular space, near a window that had no curtains to cover it. A white sheet covered the body, but the profile of a face was easily visible.

"Thank you, Friar," Molly whispered. "Can you tell me who he was?"

Lestrade shook his head. "He's not local, if that's what you're asking. Gemma's daughter found him when she went to do the washing in the river."

"Have you notified the Sheriff?"

A shadow passed over the Friar's face. "No," he said stiffly, and shook his head.

Molly forced a small smile onto her face. "That's all right," she nodded. "If you could go find Gemma's girl for me, that would be lovely. I'll do my work and then I'll take the girl with me to the Sheriff's."

Friar Lestrade did cross himself then, but muttered that he would do as Molly asked and backed out of the room.

She shook her head and crossed the room to stand beside the table.

"Just you and me now," she said to the corpse as she unclasped her cloak and folded it neatly. She set it on the floor and then slid her satchel from her shoulder, placed it at the body's feet and lifted the flap that kept it closed. From the bag, she took the tools of her trade—leather gloves, a dagger, needle and thread, a book of hand-stitched leafs of parchment, ink and a feather pen.

She laid these on an empty edge of table and, after pulling on the gloves, carefully folded back the dead man's shroud.

* * *

By the time Friar Lestrade returned with his young charge, Molly had completed her examination of the corpse, replaced the shroud and washed her instruments clean of any materials they had collected during the course of the autopsy. The Friar found her kneeling before a statuette of St. Gertrude, her cloak clasped around her and her satchel at her feet.

"Maid Molly," he said, and cleared his throat gruffly.

Molly raised her head and smiled at him. "You found her!"

"Well…yes." Lestrade growled, and pushed the girl forward. "Say hello to Maid Molly, girl."

The girl stuttered a greeting as Molly stood. She was a small thing, no more than fourteen years old with wispy golden hair and wide blue eyes that were rimmed with red. Her bottom lip seemed to have a perpetual quiver to it.

"Poor dear," Molly tutted. "What's your name?"

"P-P-Prudence, milady."

"Just Molly, thanks. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prudence."

"And you, mil—Molly."

They stood and smiled hesitantly at one another for a moment. Then Lestrade cleared his throat.

"What did you find?"

Molly turned her attention to the Friar. Her smile disappeared. "Well, he's rich, first of all. Had a gold signet ring, and his clothing was made of very fine cloth. He was murdered—strangled _and_ stabbed. It seems that whoever killed the poor man wanted to be certain of his death."

"That's it?"

Molly nodded.

Friar Lestrade sighed. "Thank you for your assistance—as always, Molly. Now, the two of you'd better be off if you want to reach the Sheriff's before he leaves office for the day."

Molly nodded and put an arm around Prudence. "If you could keep the body for a while longer, Friar…"

"Just 'til evening, Maid Molly. No later—the plague's been about."

"Thanks, Friar." Molly nodded and exited the church with Prudence at her side.

"W-we're going to s-see the Sheriff?" Prudence asked as they waited at the edge of the road for a pair of horsemen to pass by.

"Well, yes," Molly nodded. "But you needn't be afraid. I'll be with you the whole time. You just need to tell him what you saw, and—"

"But I don't want to!" the child cried. "Sheriff Moran's so—so…"

"He's an absolute horror," Molly grinned, "But he won't hurt us. We're trying to help him do his job." The horsemen passed, and she and Prudence began to cross the street. "Besides, I've worked with him before. Just let me handle everything."

"B-but—"

"But me no buts. The sooner you tell him everything, the sooner I can take you home to your mother. Good?"

Prudence nodded.

"Good. Here we are—" Molly dropped her hand from Prudence's shoulder and lifted her skirts so as to climb the steps to Sheriff Sebastian Moran's office more easily. Prudence followed.

"Deep breath," Molly said, and the two girls inhaled loudly.

Then they opened the door and stepped inside.

* * *

"It astounds me how unobservant you can be."

John sighed. "contemplative silence" hadn't lasted more than two minutes.

"You had your face covered, Sherlock. You're riding a different horse and besides, Molly did seem a bit preoccupied with that girl." John allowed himself a small smile. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were offended."

Sherlock huffed.

"Turn off here," John pointed to a gap in the hedge that lined the road. "Friar Lestrade's cleared out that old hunting lodge around the bend. It's not quite what the Earl of Loxley is used to, but…"

"It will suffice for the time being. My purpose in being here is not to languish in luxury, but to discover what has been conspiring during my brother's absence. I cannot do that by taking up residence in my home, and it has been made known to me that the Diogenes hotel has since been closed."

"So what you're saying is that you're perfectly fine with the lodge."

"I suppose."

John shook his head. "You know," he said, "I did miss you."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ Wow! Thanks everyone who favorited and reviewed—I did NOT expect to get so much positive feedback after just one post. This is my first AU, so I was a little nervous. Phew! I hope you guys liked this chapter; there will definitely be more to come!_


	3. Molly Meets the Sheriff

Sheriff Sebastian Moran was a cold man. So cold that Molly imagined he might have passed for one of her corpses if he would only lay himself out on a table and shut those startling blue eyes of his. The sheriff was tall and muscular and tan, with blond hair that was shaved close to his head. Molly supposed he was handsome—she'd overheard several village girls sighing over him on more than one occasion—but nothing changed the fact that behind his pretty face, something wasn't quite right.

Moran was sitting behind his desk when they entered, leaning back in his chair and staring at the plastered ceiling like he was bored out of his mind. He must have heard the door open—it had creaked loudly—but if he had, he showed no sign of it.

Prudence had stopped there, in the doorway. She knew, like Molly, that something wasn't right with the man. The whole village knew, really—the difference was that they were afraid of the sheriff and Molly…well. Molly wasn't.

"Go on then," Molly whispered, and gave Prudence a gentle shove between her shoulder blades. The girl stumbled forward, and for the first time, the Sheriff seemed to notice their presence.

He straightened in his chair and leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the edge of his sturdily constructed desk, and steepled his fingers.

"Ah, Maid Molly," he said in a quiet voice. "What have you come for this time?" His gaze flickered towards Prudence, who froze like a rabbit confronted by a rabid hound.

Molly cleared her throat. "I thought you should be notified that a murder was committed on your side of the river, Sheriff Moran." She suppressed a relieved sigh. Her heart might have been pounding, but her voice was steady and confident. The worst of it was already out.

"Oh dear." Moran rolled his eyes. "How inconvenient."

Prudence glanced at Molly over her shoulder. Molly shrugged, and continued the speech that she'd rehearsed on the way to the jailhouse.

"You can find the body at the church. I've already examined it and recorded my findings for you." She slid a hand into her satchel and removed a folded sheet of parchment. "And this is Prudence. She found the body. I thought you or one of your men might like to take a statement."

Molly crossed the room and slid the parchment across the table. Moran didn't even glance down at it.

"Thank you, my dear," he said. "As always, your…assistance…is appreciated. I'm sure that it will be very helpful."

Molly grimaced. What right did he have to call her "my dear" anyway?

"You and the girl may leave now." Sheriff Moran waved a hand towards the door. "Should I need any more information, I will not hesitate to contact you."

Prudence made for the door, but Molly caught her sleeve and held fast.

"Hold on," she said. "You mean you don't want to talk to the girl that found your victim and could quite possibly lead you to the killer?"

Prudence gasped. "Oh, no, miss," she breathed. "I couldn't, honest. I didn't see anything."

"There, you see?" The sheriff smiled. It wasn't a friendly expression. "She didn't see anything. So, you see, Maid Molly, you don't have anything to worry about. I will take care of this whole troublesome incident."

"But it's a murder," Molly spluttered. "Not some-some trifling village upset! A man died!"

Sebastian fixed Molly with those icy blue eyes of his. "And it's not your business anymore, is it? I said we'll take care of it."

"But—"

"Maid Molly," Prudence hissed. "Maid Molly, please can we leave? The Sheriff knows what he's doing. Please." She slipped her hand into Molly's and added in a much quieter voice, "I'm frightened."

Molly frowned. Something was off—the sheriff certainly hadn't held her in high regard when they'd worked together previously, but he'd never just…dismissed her.

Prudence gave Molly's hand a squeeze and Molly sighed. "Fine. Fine, we're going."

Sheriff Moran leaned back in his chair. "Shut the door on your way out."

* * *

John had lied. The hunting lodge was _not_ adequate. Sherlock doubted that it was even livable, let alone suitable to be the base of operations for his "mission" as King Mycroft had so accurately dubbed it.

Sherlock toed the end of a loose floor board and squinted at the shadowed interior of the apartment. The windows were still boarded up to make it seem as though the cabin was still empty, and the few candles that had been set on the fireplace mantle and on the rickety looking table in a far corner certainly didn't do any good. A cot had been set up near the fireplace and the few things that he had brought with him—a map, a bow, and a quiver of arrows among them—were stacked on top of the straw filled mattress.

John, having finished tying the horses to a post near the door, came to stand beside Sherlock. He surveyed the interior of the cabin with considerably less disgust than his friend.

"Huh. Looks like Lestrade made a pretty decent job of it."

Sherlock snorted. "You can't be serious, John. Look—the floor is rotting. The roof needs new thatch, or we shall find ourselves drowning the next time there's a decent shower. That table looks as though it couldn't stand the weight of a turkey's feather and a pigeon's taken up nest in the chimney! Get the horses. We're leaving."

"Where would we go, Sherlock?" John groaned. "You can't go to your manor—everyone thinks you're dead, remember?"

"That can be easily rectified."

"Oh yes, and I'm sure you could "rectify" Prince Jim as well. Never mind his army, or his bags of gold, or his—what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Did you just _growl_ at me? Did Sherlock Holmes, Earl of Loxley, just growl at _me_?"

"For goodness' sake, John, do shut up. You raise a good argument, and I suppose I shall have to remain here for a week or two until more suitable accommodations can be procured."

"So…you're agreeing with me?"

"Yes."

"Good Lord."

"What?"

"What, exactly, happened to you in the Holy Land?"

* * *

AN: First off, thanks to everyone for the reviews and favorites! Makes my day every time. Sorry for the shortness of this chapter—I promise that you'll start seeing actual plot soon. Or at least some Sherlolly interaction…maybe…heheheh. I don't know, I'm just really enjoying the interaction between Sherlock and John. Their conversations are just so flipping fun to write! Anyway, hope you liked the chapter. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think of the story so far!


	4. Reflection

If there had been anyone there to observe him, they might have suspected Sherlock Holmes of being asleep. He lay on his cot, one arm thrown across his eyes. His chest rose steadily up and down beneath the hideous quilted blanket that Lestrade had brought him.

But Sherlock Holmes was not asleep—oh, no. He rarely slept, and had done so even less since his stay in the Holy Land.

No. Sherlock Holmes was planning.

When His Lord Mycroft had ordered Sherlock to return to England, Sherlock had done so expecting to find that nothing had changed. The kingdom had been left in, he thought, the capable hands of Prince Jim, a clever man with enough friends in foreign circles to keep the kingdom running until the crusaders returned.

He had been wrong about one thing—his assumption that the king's brother would remain loyal to his family. Loyalty, it seemed, was not an inherited characteristic among the siblings. Not long after King Mycroft and his army had departed from England, Prince Jim had begun to place his own men in positions of power, killing or banishing those left over from the old regime. John had told Sherlock of the rise in taxes, the overzealous attitude of the new sheriff and his men, and the lavish life that Prince Jim perpetuated. If this continued, the citizens of Nottingham and the surrounding feifdoms would not be able to afford to live. They had already become little more than slaves in the newly appointed noblemen's eyes.

Sherlock had returned to find that his childhood home, Loxley Manor, had been given to one of Prince Jim's appointed governors. The many servants that had been in his employ, including his former nanny, Mrs. Hudson, had been sent away.

Something, the Earl thought, had to be done. And quickly, if he was ever going to make it out of the hunting lodge alive. If he wasn't mistaken, there was the hint of a cold in his chest.

He groaned and shifted uncomfortably. He had been laying on the cot for a number of hours, and now his body was beginning to protest. He lifted his arm from his face and glanced at the heavy black cloak that was tossed over the hearth, then to the door and back.

It was time to see the changes in Nottingham for himself.

* * *

Once, Hooper Manor had teemed with life. Molly could remember wandering the halls when she was a child, watching the maids beat rugs or scrub clothing. The stables had been full of spirited horses and smiling, shouting men; visitors came regularly, with business propositions for Molly's father or with news of the trading ships, and very often they brought new toys for Molly to play with—a painted doll filled with other smaller dolls, a little jeweled box that played a tinkling song when she cracked the lid.

The world had seemed so large and so full of sunshine then.

Molly lifted a steaming cup of tea and sniffed at the steam that rose faintly from the cup. She could hear the faint noises of her housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, pottering up and down the halls, but nothing else. Her home had been empty for a long time, now. Her father's rash business deals had made certain of that. Most of the furniture had been sold years ago and a good portion of the house had been locked up. The last horse had died of colic a month ago, and the rose garden was dying.

Molly's mother had loved that garden.

Rain splattered against the windows, and Molly shook her head. No use dwelling on the past, now, was there? She was happy now—she was. The occupants of Nottingham might not have been as kind as they could have been, but that could hardly be expected of them. After all, she was the strange one, strange in that she looked after the dead and stood her ground against the Sheriff. But the vegetable garden was growing well, and she had managed to buy fabric for a new dress the last time she was in town, so there would be no more wearing the old patched one. And then there was the—

"You're so quiet these days." Mrs. Hudson stepped into the sitting room and took a seat opposite Molly. "Drinking tea and staring out that window. I'm worried about you, my dear."

"There isn't much to talk about." Molly shrugged. "The world seems so dark these days, Mrs. Hudson."

"Still brooding about that murder, then?" Mrs. Hudson leaned forward and picked a muffin from one of the trays. "I thought you said that the sheriff was going to take care of it."

"You know how I feel about Moran's detective work. I'm willing to bet he hasn't thought twice about the case." Molly sighed. "The only thing he does is collect taxes for Prince Jim. His men are thieves and liars and there's no one left to do anything about it. I wish they'd never left on this damned crusade."

"I miss him too, dear. We all do." Mrs. Hudson smiled at her employer. "Maybe when the men return we'll have a proper funeral."

"If they return."

Mrs. Hudson tutted quietly. "Pessimism doesn't become you, dear. Besides, a little bird tells me that they might be returning sooner than you think." She bit into her muffin and grimaced. "Next time, I'll cook, darling."

"A little bird?" Molly leaned forward.

"A story for another time." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "But you can stop worrying, sweetheart. I have a feeling that things are going to get better from now on!"

As she and Mrs. Hudson sat together and ate muffins in silence, Molly couldn't help but feel something warm rise in her chest. Hope, relief…a mixture of the two, perhaps. Whatever it was, she hadn't felt it in a long time.

It was a pity that it couldn't last.

* * *

AU: I know it's a short chapter. So short. How do you make long chapters, I do not know anymore. But on the bright side, IT'S A CHAPTER! Hopefully I'll be updating more often now. Unless Senior year decides to eat me alive, in which case anybody still reading this has my apologies.


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